Thursday, August 13, 2015

I suppose I should have known I was being had when Franklin, my
taciturn Caribbean-Costa-Rican tarpon fishing guide, handed me that
rusty, beat-up, medium-weight spinning rig. On the recommendation of our
lodge in Tortuguero (in Costa Rica's northeast, Caribbean, corner), I’d
paid him his $150 up front to put me on some of that magnificent,
acrobatic game fish, revered by its aficionados as the Silver King.

Once
he’d skillfully tiptoed his tiny, open boat through the swirling
currents and standing waves at the river’s mouth, it appeared Franklin
might just meet my expectations after all; there were tarpon everywhere.
The mirror-bright flanks of their sleek, 50- to 150-pound bodies caught
the sun, flashing in the murky, blue-green water as they “daisy
chained” ‘round schools of six- to eight-inch sardines. The bait fish,
hundreds of them, turned and darted in unison as if one fluid
silver-blue organism.

I was ready.

PHOTO: Tony Cappechi

There I was...shooting fish, as it were, entirely outside the barrel.

FISHIN' WHERE THEY AIN'T
As
quickly as my hopes had risen, that's how fast they fell again when
Franklin reached under his seat and pulled out his "professional”
fishing-guide tackle box. (It was really the small, cheap plastic kind a
ten-year-old American kid would buy at WalMart for $9.95.) Inside,
strewn atop the one swing-up tray, was a motley selection of well-used
lures. He picked up a big, lead-headed jig with half of its red and
white feather streamers still intact, and handed it to me.

“Poot
deese own deah,” he mumbled indifferently, pointing to the swivel clip
on the end of my line. Figuring he must know something I didn’t (After
all, he is a professional guide, right?), I complied. Then he said, “Now
drope eet ovah and let eet foal to dee boatum…dat weah dee feesh ah.”

I
was nearly too dumbfounded to speak. “Ah-h-h, but I can see the tarpon!
They’re feeding up here right next to us,” I protested. Franklin was
unmoved. “No, dey own dee boatum!” So there I sat, jigging that
red-and-white lure up and down off the sea bed twenty feet below as I
watched the awesome monsters I was fishing for circle near the surface,
feeding on those silver-blue herring.

Just in case, I
grabbed my line just forward of the reel and pulled, checking the drag
setting. It was set way too tight for these quick-striking, powerful
fish, but when I tried turning the setting knob, it wouldn’t budge.
Great! Even if I accidentally snagged one of these brutes, I’d have to
pray it went easy on me.

My frustration simmered. I
looked around and noticed another boat, even smaller than ours, drifting
about 100 yards away. Standing in it was a man fly-fishing. I admired
his effortless style as he flew his streamer back and forth over his
head, feeding it another couple of feet of line with each false cast.
Then, about 60 feet out, he let it drop. He watched it sink a couple of
feet and then retrieved it with deft tugs of his free hand.

Suddenly,
the man reared back, lifted the rod high with both arms and laid into
whatever had taken his bait. Before he knew what hit him, a six-foot
tarpon exploded from the water, thrashing wildly back and forth. It
seemed like one of those sport fishing highlights films, where the
action is captured in slow motion. Wow! I thought, this guy’s just
caught about a hundred-pound Silver King...on a
fly rod!

And
there I was, fishing the wrong lure in the wrong place at the right
time—shooting fish, as it were, entirely outside the barrel. Maybe it’s
because I’m from Minnesota, but it dawned on me that I’d been sucking it
up to spare the feelings of the man who was robbing me.

I hadn’t turned the crank more than five times when it hit, the kind of
strike you get when you’ve suddenly snagged a log—except this one was
moving.

THE JIG IS UP
My admiration for the fly-fisherman turned to envy; the envy to resolve. Enough
of this!

“Oh,
my God,” I blurted, pointing to a random spot in the water just behind
Franklin. “That one must be close to 200 pounds!” As he turned to look, I
seized the moment, reaching down and opening the main compartment of
his tackle box. And there it was: a six-inch long, silver-blue, Rapala
type lure. Not only did it look exactly like what the tarpon were
feeding on, it was practically brand new.

“How about
this one?” I asked, my tone carefully measured somewhere between
question and demand. As he turned back to face me, our eyes locked in
gritty stares. He blinked first, and I picked up the lure. He started to
reach for it, but I’d already unclipped my snap swivel. He scowled,
mumbling something under his breath.

With the right
bait on, I flipped open my bale, cocked my arms and wrists, and let fly a
modest cast in the direction of the other fisherman. (I was so intent
on my own hunt now that I didn’t even notice if he’d landed his fish.)
The faux sardine landed with a splash and I started reeling. I hadn’t
turned the crank more than five times when it hit, the kind of strike
you get when you’ve suddenly snagged a log—except this one was moving.

I set the hook as hard as I dared with that pitiful equipment. From the moment
I’d
casted, it couldn’t have been more than ten seconds till it happened:
my drag nightmare came true. Before it had even jumped, the tarpon took
off like a shot…and then that sickening sound fishermen dread, that of
heavy monofilament line snapping. Just like that, it was over.

TURNING THE TABLES
I’ve
had many sport-fishing captains console me on the loss of a big fish.
Sometimes they counsel me on what I might do differently next time. Most
are eager to get another bait out there. Franklin? He was just pissed.
Here this pushy white guy, obviously a man of wealth and privilege, had
just lost his prize lure on, of all reckless things, a fish. Red and white jig? Bounce it on the bottom? Proper drag? Trust me, I’m a professional?
These and other snarky comments clawed at the thin fabric of my
restraint. I realized, though, that shaming Franklin would accomplish
nothing. Besides, I still had to rely on him to get me back, through
those treacherous waters, to the lodge.

Still, though I
was more than ready to end our laughable outing, I wasn’t about to let
the man off the hook. So, with no more lures in his little Plano box
that even remotely resembled a herring, I tied the red-and-white jig
back on, dropped it in the water and kept jigging—for nothing more than
jigging’s sake...and perhaps to drive Franklin's hourly rate as low as
possible—for the rest of our contracted time.

Franklin just sat there brooding—calculating, I suppose, how to lure his next sucker.

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ElViajeroContento (the Happy Traveler) is an illustrated collection of brief travel stories told by author Jeffrey Willius. More than just a "went there, did that" journal, it attempts to recount the deeper bonds made with people and place. Occasional posts focus on a single, especially moving experience. Enjoy!

About Me

Jeffrey Willius is a veteran writer, an award-winning graphic designer, an inventor with a U.S. utility patent to his name, and a sensitive observer of his world. He is the author of Under the Wild Ginger – A Simple Guide to the Wisdom of Wonder, and launched the popular blog, One Man's Wonder, in October, 2010.
He enjoys traveling, especially in Latin America, where he pursues his quest for fluency in Spanish.
Willius has written professionally for over 30 years. His work has been published in Popular Science Magazine and in many daily newspapers and trade magazines.
He lives in Minneapolis, and spends a month annually in Zihuatanejo, Guerrero, Mexico.